


Need

by krazykitkat



Category: West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krazykitkat/pseuds/krazykitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paper and pen last longer than flesh or mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: Need  
> AUTHOR: Kat/krazykitkat  
> RATING: R  
> SPOILERS: Through to the end of season 4.  
> DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and its characters are the property of Aaron Sorkin, Warner Brothers, and NBC. No Copyright Infringement is intended. I will put them back slightly disheveled.  
> AUTHOR'S NOTES: This idea has been in my brain for quite a while, lines floating around. Finally pulled it together.  
> THANKS: To Luna and Angie for editing and support.  
> Written 2004.

She knocks on his door twenty minutes after her father forgets to breathe.

The daughter needs to be remembered.

Her words stumble over her lips in their rush to explain and he catches them with his mouth.

She needs a writer to preserve her language.

Hands undo buttons and zippers and pull material up and off and down. He raises his hand to slow her, but she's blind. He raises his voice and she stops just long enough for him to guide her to his bed.

She bristles at his attempt to soothe with gentle touches and endearments. He gets the message after a couple of bites and scratches.

Her nails dig into his shoulders and his fingers bruise her ass as she rides him, hard. Tears scald his chest as her mouth contorts in pain.

It's been too long and too rough and he comes before she's ready. He bites his tongue, but it isn't enough to cope with her treatment. Throwing her off-balance, he rolls them, pinning her with his weight.

Her lips curl in frustration and anger, baring her gritted teeth. He presses his fingers hard against her clit and lowers his mouth to her smaller, more sensitive right breast.

Working her until her body goes lax, he raises his head and for a moment worries he's killed her. Her face is blank, her eyes closed.

He only breathes again when her forehead furrows. Her lips form words with no sound.

"What?" he whispers.

Her eyes open, but he knows she doesn't see him. "I'm an orphan."

He almost smiles at the incongruous image of little orphan CJ. But as he looks down, trying to find her beneath the layer of mourning, he realizes she is smaller somehow.

Maybe her father took a part of her with him when he slipped away.

Maybe she was taller when her mother was alive.

***

He has a metal lock-box in the safe in his home office.

It contains the twins' hats and a lock of Molly's hair (Andi has Huck's; having so little hair to begin with, plus his family history of baldness, he thought it wise they only clip one lock apiece).

And four books of archive-quality acid-proof paper.

One each for the twins and one for Andi, because she is their mother and she was his life once.

CJ will need a second one of her own before too long.

He started writing after her father forgot her name. If the man who was there when she came into the world and watched her grow couldn't remember her, what chance does he have?

So he records memories and conversations and looks and touches on whatever's handy and then transcribes them into the books in indelible ink.

Preserving her and them.

He knows it's an imperfect plan.

So much can't be conveyed through words. And even videotape, photos and flesh couldn't return her to her father's mind.

But it's the little things he's trying to capture: the personal incidences that only mean something to them but are part of their existence.

Because if he doesn't record them and then he forgets or genetics claims her, she'll become a little smaller and she'll eventually slip through his fingers.

Paper and pen last longer than flesh or mind.

A whimper pulls his attention back to her body.

Words have always been his chosen medium, but it's times like these he wishes he could draw.

Half on her side, half on her stomach, one arm curled under her body and the other reaching. Sometimes for him, other times for something only she knows is missing. Her hair curtaining her face, which he always brushes back behind her ear, so he can see her soft expressions.

But tonight her lips are twitching and her forehead is furrowed. And the skin is pulled tight over her cheekbones.

When Huck is restless, he puts his palm on the side of his tiny face.

Her cheek isn't as smooth or small but his hand is large enough. The death mask smooths out under his touch and her searching fingers locate his heartbeat. And he whispers that he'll never leave her.

His index finger and thumb rub together, itching for a pen. But she needs him more.

***

"You called Leo." She's standing in the doorway of his home office, wearing her jeans and one of his dress shirts unbuttoned over her camisole.

He closes her book, hoping the ink doesn't smudge. "We've got a flight at two-thirty."

Her teeth worry her bottom lip and he waits for the yelling.

"He's letting us both go?"

Leo had surprised him a little, suggesting he go with her before he could say he was taking leave. "Apparently we don't have any more elections to win."

"He does realize that leaves him alone with Josh and the President?" Her fingers play with his shirt cuffs.

"He'll survive."

"But will the country?"

And he knows what she's not saying and he's not biting. "Deal with it."

Her chin drops and her shoulders slump and he's a little scared by the speed of her capitulation. He won't record this moment.

He slides her book under a folder, walks across and leans against the doorframe. She's close enough for him to reach out and touch-her hand, her face.

But he won't.

They don't.

"We'll probably have to share a bedroom." She looks down, pulling at the bottom shirt button. "Though Hogan might want to share so I don't know-"

"I'll get a motel room." He needs to see her eyes, to make certain she's still there.

"No. Not a motel." The idea sparks surprising fury.

He winces as a thread loosens and places his hand over hers.

She unravels.

He doesn't have the strength to keep her standing and they slide to the floor, limbs tangling. Her head falls onto his shoulder and her shudders echo through his chest. He's not sure what to do until her first tears soak into his shirt.

He presses his lips against her hair and his palm against her cheek. Rubbing her back in a slow circular motion, he notes the prominence of her spine even through the two layers of material.

She nestles closer, her arms wrapping around him, as her plaintive sobs become audible. He rocks her back and forth and she's never been so delicate. Yet, he knows in a short while she'll stand on her own again. Her resilience has never been in doubt, but he will stay beside her.

And he hopes that someone will catch Molly when she inevitably falls.


End file.
